Walking at Night the Fourth Time

Dad we've got a problem.
You've got Alzheimer's.
You're seventy years old.
This morning me and Mom picked you up on the Bush-Folsom Road.
You were barefoot in your shorts with a flashlight.
That's a hazard to the public safety.
It's the fourth time this fall I've brought you home at night.
This week we've secured the car keys from you.
You can't see well enough to drive any more.
Fifty years of responsibility is fine, Dad.
That's all we can ask of a man.
You don't have to drive any more.
Please don't walk any more at night.
You had a Model A Ford
you drove in the streets of McCook, Nebraska in the year 1940.
You received the safe driver award from your school.
You've had a score of cars since then.
You always remember to check the oil.
You couldn't make the Cowpens reunion this year.
Your shipmates on the Mighty Moo are going to miss seeing you.
In the newsletter it says you had a slight stroke and wouldn't be able to make it.
I heard you ate with your radio room buddies a couple times.
In a way you're still on the carrier.
The trauma of the big war still oscillates in your valves.
Your superheterodyne receiver is still tuned
to the cheeping and chirping of the code traffic
from Bull Halsey and Hideki Tojo.
By an amazing coincidence, Dad: That's the way it is with me and my war.
Did you watch us on TV in the streets?
Did you catch when we changed our chant?
I guess that was too subtle for reporters to notice.
By seventy-one, we changed "Bring the troops home!"
to the new slogan "Bring the war home!"
A lot of people got lost in Vietnam and some of them didn't even go.
You remember Midway and the Coral Sea
like I remember the Student Strike and the Pentagon March.
Different wars, Dad. Same kind of trauma.
People tell us these wars are over but we know better.
We can hear them.
Your health, Dad. Here's to your health.

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Whither?

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